Of coin my purse is bare, My heart is full of care; Come here, my fiddle, ’tis for thee To banish care and poverty. VI. Heaven grant the boon, I pray; All I ask is but a gown— But a gown with buttons gay, Buttons jingling joyously, Jingling to be heard in town! VII. God of vengeance! give to me That of wives the best; Give me boot and give me spur, Give me scarlet vest. Then though spite their visage darken In the market-place, Fain must look and needs must hearken All my foemen’s race. VIII. Where soft the wee burn babbles down over there, Full oft have I pressed these lips to my fair. The burn it still babbles, will babble amain, Shall lips to my fair be pressed never again! The waves of the brook to the valley are flowing, Where on grave of my fairest the blossoms are blowing. IX. Down there in the meadow they’re mowing, And looks at my sweetheart they’re throwing; Such looks at my sweetheart they’re throwing, That mad is this heart of mine going! X. Yonder strapping lass did bake, Put no salt into the cake; Lo! it sticks upon the pan— Eat it, child, as best you can. XI. “Plainly, maiden, lov’st thou me? Which thy true-love—I or he?” “Thou, O thou, when thou art nigh; But for love of him I die!” XII. Boots and shoes were never mine, Seldom have I tasted wine; But I once possessed a wife, And she poisoned all my life! XIII. Hammer the iron! Deal thy blows Heavy and hard, as a gypsy knows. Poor, yet ever—how poor!—remain; Heart full of bitterness, full of pain. Ah, how well would it be if there I could but in yon furnace glare, Till soft it grew, my love’s heart ply; No man were then so rich as I. XIV. Underneath the greenwood-tree Days I’ve waited three times three; I would on my love set eyes, Here I know her path-way lies. Could I hope a kiss to earn, Into weeks the days might turn; Could I hope to win my dear, Then each day might be a year! XV. Come, silvery moon, so silent and coy, What does my brown sweetheart that dwells by the mere? Say, was she not kissed by a flaxen-haired boy? Or whispers a stranger soft words in her ear? On second thoughts, better, moon, darling, be mute, The odious trade of a telltale eschewing; Or perhaps you might tell her—and that would not suit— What yesterday evening myself I was doing! XVI. The bee ever makes for the flower, And lads after lassies will go; Was it otherwise, grandam so sour, In the days of thy youth long ago? For Nature her mould never varies, To that can no wisdom say nay; What the ancestor felt, that the heir is, As inheritor, feeling to-day. FOOTNOTES: [66] This ballad, which in the original is called “Kalai Wodas,” and begins thus: